


silly heart

by OnyxSphynx



Series: newmann one-shots [50]
Category: Pacific Rim (Movies)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, M/M, Miscommunication, Not Pacific Rim: Uprising (2018) Compliant, Post-Drift (Pacific Rim)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-20
Updated: 2019-04-20
Packaged: 2020-01-23 01:19:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,294
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18539371
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OnyxSphynx/pseuds/OnyxSphynx
Summary: Alcohol and exhaustion—this makes for a deadly combination at the best of times, and a devastating one at the worst.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> anon asked: “What do you think of this Newmann prompt? "That silly heart of his had gotten ahead of his brain and imagined this was heading toward something. He didn't know what that something was, but it was more than a bit of fumbling around in dark corners."”

It starts with a kiss—no—

It starts with the blue of the Drift, the screaming of his mind and Newton’s, backlit by the white noise of the dying kaiju brain, tumbling through flashes of memories faster than lightspeed and yet also slowly, so slowly, as if frozen in time, an entire lifetime, two entire lifetimes pass before his eyes, and then—

It’s over and he’s retching, miserably, shaking as he grips the edge of a discarded toilet bowl, pain shooting up his leg—

No, he’s sixteen and his leg is strong and he’s gripping the rim of a bowl, shaking, half-delirious with fever, shirt wet with sweat and sticking to his skin, the sound of a bird chirping cheerfully outside the window in sharp relief with his wretched state—

There’s the soft murmur of paper rustling, and he turns; Newton is, for once, sitting properly on the lab stool, pen poised, staring at Hermann intently, and Hermann wonders how long he’s been doing so, flushes. “ _What?_ ” he snaps, and Newt shrugs.

“Nothing,” he replies, glancing down to his paper, and Hermann—

Would glower, except, for some reason, he doesn’t _want_ to; the realisation brings him up short, and he frowns. “Alright, then,” he says, more to himself than the biologist, and returns to his chalkboards.

Perhaps, he thinks, it’s that he still remembers finding Newton seizing on the ground, blood streaming from his nose—it is, he suspects, an image that will be burnt into his retinas for all of time, the desperate way the other clung to him, eyes panicked.

Something about it is—frightening, frighteningly _beautiful_ , the synchronicity it’s lent them, and Hermann hates it as much as he loves it. If they were each other’s driving force before, the incessant need to prove the other wrong resulting in an almost-manic state of brilliance, now they now just how to push to get the best results, to be the catalyst but—

It leaves Hermann with the emotional equivalent of vertigo more often than he’d like, unable to distinguish what is _him_ and what is _Newton_ , the two interwoven almost beyond recognition, and he _hates_ that, hates that his mind refuses the order he once so strictly imposed upon it, hates the brilliant flashes of blue whenever he closes his eyes, robbing him of his already scant hours of sleep.

Newton revels in it, laughs gleefully when he finds Hermann tapping away unconsciously one day, when things are slow. “ _Hah_ ,” he crows, grinning smugly, and Hermann is suddenly hit with a wave of—something _fond_ , scowls when he can’t tell whose it is.

“Never speak of this,” he orders, but it sounds half-hearted to him, and Newt just keeps grinning.

It’s the third week before the full weight of the events of the twelfth of January hit him fully; of course he had known, logically, but the significance of it—the loss, the trauma, it’s only just now hit him, and it leaves him shaking, head in his hands, silent tears streaming down his face.

A hand on his shoulder; Newton’s, the weight a silent comfort, and Hermann leans into it. Almost unthinkingly, he says, “I—I’m not sure—” he trails off, unsure how to finish; because, in the end, really, that’s it, isn’t it? He’s—relieved, of course, and bitterly, bitterly sad and upset that it took over a decade and countless lives to end it, but above all, he just feels…empty.

He raises his head and Newt meets his gaze, sympathy written on his face, and he asks, uncharacteristically soft, “Is there anything I can do to help?”

Hermann runs his tongue over his teeth, thinking, before he says, honestly, “I don’t know.”

“Alright.” That the other accepts it at face value tells Hermann that he really means it; he’s—worried, Hermann thinks, the aftertaste of the emotion lingering in the Drift bond, but he respects Hermann enough—knows him well enough—to not push. “I—I have a bottle of…vodka, I think, somewhere in my room if you want any.”

Hermann nods minutely. “Yes, that would be appreciated,” he replies, “but I’m afraid—well, I’m afraid I simply do not have the energy to make the trip there—”

Newton cuts him off with a wave. “‘s fine, dude,” he reassures, “I get it. You hang tight—I’ll be back in a few.” Hermann lets his head fall back against the headrest, stares at the ceiling, and lets out a shaky breath.

The Kaidanovskys, Marshal Pentecost, the Wei-Tang triplets, Chuck Hansen…none are people he was ever on particularly good terms with, but now they’re dead, Hermann feels the loss acutely, and the weight is so, so heavy.

Newton’s back, and he opens his eyes at the sound of the familiar footfalls, unaware that they had slipped shut. Newton sets down an unmarked bottle in front of Hermann and goes to fetch another chair.

“No cups?” Hermann asks, stating the obvious.

The biologist shrugs. “I couldn’t find any.”

Hermann sighs, resigned. “Well, if I catch a cold from this, at least I’ll know who to yell at,” he grumbles, and Newt’s lip twitches. “Well, pass the bottle then.”

Newton obliges, unscrewing the cap and offering it to Hermann, who tips it back. The liquid burns down his throat, and he tamps down the urge to cough, knowing that that’ll only make it worse. “You’re certain that’s not pure ethanol?” Hermann rasps.

Newt shrugs a shoulder, reaching for the bottle and taking a small sip, grimaces. “No sure—I think some of the Russian J-Techs made it in a bathtub,” he admits.

“Hm,” Hermann murmurs, not commenting, and takes the bottle back for another sip.

They only get a quarter of the way through it, in the end, because Hermann is having trouble holding the bottle to his lips, and Newton has no tolerance to speak of. They’ve moved to sitting on the floor, the cold of the concrete a balm, and Hermann’s leaned against the shorter man, head resting on his shoulder.

“…sucks,” Newt murmurs, not clarifying what he’s speaking of, and Hermann makes a noncommittal sound. The other’s face is close, closer than Hermann can ever remember it being, and he practically goes cross-eyed. Newt laughs, short and hiccoughing, and Hermann thinks that it’s oddly attractive, actually, in the way that is just so _Newton_ that it’s breathtaking.

And then, before he realises it’s happened, they’re breaking apart, Newt’s gaze flicking to his lips, and—

When he wakes, he’s sitting in his chair at his desk, the phantom sensation of lips on his own, Newton nowhere to be found, and—

It doesn’t mean anything, of course it doesn’t, but for a split second, that silly heart of his had gotten ahead of his brain and imagined it was heading toward something. He doesn’t know what that something was, but it was more than a bit of drunken fumbling around in dark corners.

He swallows back the bitter taste of longing.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> anon asked: “Whelve”  
> “ **whelve** —to bury something deep, to hide”

Newt doesn’t—

Give it much thought, really. Or—he gives it too much though? Things are hard to discern in relation to Hermann, always have been, even before the Drift pulling them apart and putting them back together but not _quite_ , the pieces a little jagged at the edges; they don’t fit properly, or even back the way that they fit wrong _before_.

So he smiles, because that’s what he’d do, even if it feels alien, now, and offers Hermann the bottle of what might be vodka and they drink it until he’s utterly smashed, fading in and out of German when he speaks, the heavier words mixing with the lighter English, and Hermann’s looking at him with—something that stirs emotions long hidden, shoved deep down into the dark.

He tugs at his collar, swallows, suddenly warm, not just from the alcohol, and Hermann blinks at him slowly, lashes dark against his skin, and Newt is leaning forward, the natural progression, he thinks, of this—of them, what should’ve happened years ago when they first met instead of arguing.

The vodka slows them both, Newt especially, and they’re fumbling under the dim light, hands clumsy, and finally, after numerous attempts to undo Hermann’s shirt, Newt gives up, melting against the other with a huff of laughter, and tips his head to glance at Hermann.

His mouth is tipped up slightly at one end, as if he’s not sure how to smile properly, and it’s— _endearing_. His eyes are slipping shut, and he sighs softly, resting his head on Newt’s shoulder. “…I’m afraid I’m going to fall asleep, Newton,” he murmurs. “But this has been—fun.”

Newt’s breath stutters to a halt, but Hermann’s breaths have already turned shallow, leaving Newt supporting his weight, hurt and disappointed and feeling altogether humiliated for thinking that Hermann could possibly mean anything by it.

So: pointedly _not_ thinking about it, and especially not thinking about how Hermann curled against him when Newt, finally able to stand of his own accord, carefully picked him up and placed him in his chair, making sure his neck wasn’t cricked at an awkward angle.

No, not thinking about that at all, because that’s a recipe for disaster.

“I’m _not_ ,” he says stubbornly to the kaiju skin-louse in the container across from him. It chitters at him in what Newt imagines is a mocking tone, the sound muffled by the glass, and Newt scowls. If Hermann were here, he’d scold Newt for anthropomorphizing it— _if_ he were here. Which he isn’t, having made excuses the instant Newt got into the lab.

He can’t help but feel hurt by that—of course he didn’t want to just… _go_ back to being—whatever it is they are or where, not friends, exactly, but more than just colleagues, but he had hoped their relationship, whatever that may be, would change in a different way than it has.

Specifically, in a way that involves Newt and Hermann and a bit more than drunken making out. Sex, he means sex, he’s not eleven, there’s no point in making veiled references, and, plus, he’s not even talking out _loud_ , this entire conversation is in his _head_. He scowls harder and grabs a pencil off of his desk— _desk_ , because that’s the least they can do, given he helped cancel the apocalypse, he shouldn’t be forced to share a desk with _Hermann_ —and chucks it at the skin-louse.

It bounces off of the glass, and the louse doesn’t so much as move.

Boredom washes over him, momentarily displacing the angst, and he glances around for anything to do other than _work_. He digs through the desk drawer, tossing papers onto the desk. There should be some sort of something for him to fidget with—ah, there it is: a pen.

Probably one of the only ones in the lab, actually, because Hermann hates it when he writes his reports in pen, and long ago began, less-than-covertly, to nick and dispose of Newt’s. What with the war, getting new ones was a bit of a hassle, so Newt eventually gave up.

The memory is, in equal parts aggravating and nostalgic, and he bites his cheek, reaching for the pen and pulling it out with a triumphant, “Hah!” before promptly dropping it and having to scramble under the desk for it, almost hitting his head when he comes up—

Hermann’s by the side of the desk, closer than he’s been in a while, and he’s staring at something on the desk with an indecipherable expression, lips a thin line. Apprehension trickles down Newt’s spine like ice-water, and he leans over to see what it is—

“Oh, _shit_ ,” he murmurs, almost trance-like, and then Hermann opens his mouth, about to say something, and _that_ snaps him out of it. He makes a grab for the papers, but Hermann is faster than him, snatching them up and clutching them tightly. Newt panics, because—

Well, those are his sketches. Specifically, his sketches of _Hermann_ —or, at least, a few of them. And possibly (multiple) variations of _NG + HG,_ written in various fonts, as well as, most incriminatingly, in his best penmanship, _Newton Gottlieb_.

Without a second though, Newt leaps at Hermann, desperate to retrieve the papers. Hermann neatly steps aside, and Newt goes tumbling to the floor, lets out a hiss of pain when his head hits the concrete. “Give them _back_ ,” he demands, hoping that his voice is steadier than it sounds, “look, I get it, you don’t really care, but can you just—give those back? And pretend you never saw them?” His voice cracks part way through, because of course it does, leaving him feeling more than a little pathetic and humiliated.

Hermann makes a sort of a keening sound, and says, eyes broadcasting something like _pain_ , “Don’t _care?_ ” His lip trembles, and, deadly in it’s quietness, he repeats, “ _Don’t care?_ Oh, that’s _rich_ , coming from _you—_ the _audacity—_ ”

“Oh, _sure_ ,” Newt hisses, anger welling up—and _fuck_ , he’s angry, yeah; if it were just _rejection_ that would be one thing, but Hermann’s acting as if Newt has _wronged_ him somehow. “Yeah, sure, _Hermann_ , just blame _me—_ how dare _I_ feel disappointed that it _didn’t mean anything to you! Fuck_ you, Hermann—reject me, whatever, but then—then—you come and get _upset_ over my attraction to you, yeah, _fuck me_ , right, how _dare_ I have a _crush_ on you—how _dare_ I not be able to just magically decide to stop being attracted to you!”

Once he’s said it, his shoulders slump, exhausted and out of breath. Hermann doesn’t say anything, staring at Newt unblinkingly like a deer caught in the headlights, and Newt forces himself to his feet, snatching the papers from his slack grip, and storms out of the lab, willing back tears.

He only gets halfway down the hall before the sound of Hermann’s cane hitting the floor reaches his ears—faster than usual, as if the other is running as quickly as he can. “Wait!” Hermann calls after him, “Newton, please—”

Newt whips around, ready to tear into him, angry, bitter words on the tip of his tongue—

And sees the other; Hermann’s panting, eyes wide, lip trembling, and he looks—upset. Swallowing, Newt bites out, “Look, if this is going to be another argument, can we just—not? Just—just this once, maybe?”

Hermann steps forward slowly, as if Newt’s a stray cat he’s afraid he’ll scare off, and says, softly, so softly, “Newton, no. I’m sorry.” He’s so damn _quiet_ , too, none of the usual acerbity in his tone, and he continues, “I think—I _hope_ —that there has been an…error of communication, because, to put it frankly, I’m not sure we’re on the same page, so to speak. So…I’d like to talk this out, if you’d be amenable.”

Cautiously, Newt nods. “Okay. Yeah, okay,” he says, a bit shakily. “Um, do you—want to go back to the lab and sit down, maybe? I mean, I don’t think I want to deal with this standing up, if you feel me.”

Hermann dips his head. “Of course.”

The return to the lab is odd; both of them are quieter than usual, and they walk at a distance from each other—going at the same pace, but far apart enough that another person could pass between them.

Newt drags his chair over to the other side of Hermann’s desk, putting the table between them. Hermann sits on the other side, stiff-backed, and Newt lets out a nervous laugh. “Shit, I don’t know what to says,” he breathes, “I just—yeah. Yeah.”

“Very well, then,” Hermann says, voice steadier than before, “perhaps we can start with my refutal of your notion that our—engagement last night means nothing to me. It was— _is_ ,” he corrects himself, “of great emotional significance to me. And when I saw your—papers, I felt…mocked, to be honest; I believed that you had created them to mock my long-standing attraction to you.”

Newt blinks. “Hermann, don’t take this the wrong way, but that is honestly the most ridiculous thing I’ve heard this week.” Hermann purses his lips, and Newt quickly backtracks. “I mean I’m _not_ mocking you, but it’s just, like— _that’s_ what your mind jumped to?”

Hermann relaxes minutely. “Yes, well,” he says, sheepishly, “I suspect that it’s from prolonged exposure to you.”

Newt shoots him a quick smile before he becomes more serious. “Okay, okay,” he says, squeezing his eyes shut, then blinking rapidly, as if the action will disperse his anxiety. “I—I’m attracted to you, Hermann, and, well, you said something last night that made it seem like everything we did was just—meaningless, I guess, and that…well, that _hurt_ ,” he confesses, “and then when you saw my…papers, I kinda freaked. Sorry.”

The other is silent for a few seconds before he says, “I—I don’t know what you’re talking about, Newton.” Before Newt can snap something sharp and pained, he holds up a hand. “Hear me out, please—my memories of the previous night are less than perfect, especially given the strength of the alcohol I ingested, and thus, I fear I may have an incomplete knowledge of what was said and done.”

“Oh.”

“Yes.”

Newt drops his gaze to his hands, somehow still holding the pen, and clicks it a few times. “You said—um, after we kind of made out a bit, you said that it was… _fun_.” The memory hurts, to be blunt, stings like salt on a papercut.

He glances back up, meets Hermann’s gaze cautiously, and—“I’m sorry,” Hermann says thickly. “I—I’m sorry that I hurt you. That wasn’t my intention, and for that, I apologise. I never meant to diminish the significance of the situation; I was inebriated, even if not as obviously as yourself, and thus, not thinking clearly—though that is no excuse for the emotional anguish I caused you, for which I apologise yet again.”

Uncertain of just how to address that, Newt instead asks, “Why did you think I was mocking you?”

There’s a longer silence, and when Hermann finally speaks, the words sound pained. “I—when I woke up, I couldn’t find you anywhere, and when I finally _did_ see you, you acted as if nothing had occurred. I—well, I assumed that it didn’t carry the same emotional significance for you as it did for me.” His eyes are glassy, and he drags his hand across them in an attempt to rid them of tears.

“I…” Newt’s floundering and he knows it, so instead of trying to make a grand speech as he normally would, he instead settles simply on, “I’m sorry. I should’ve—”

Hermann cuts him off. “Should have what? That’s in the past, Newton, and as much as it hurt— _hurts_ —there’s nothing you can do about it. Time marches steadily onwards without any say on our part.”

That prompts a laugh from Newt, because it’s just—just so _Hermann_ , refreshingly so. Most of the day has been muzzy in the way that things are when he’s too emotionally overwhelmed, and Hermann’s words feel like a re-establishment of reality. “Yeah, you’re right,” he says. “I guess we’re both really bad at talking about things, huh?”

Hermann smiles at him, small but genuine. “Quite,” he agrees. “And…” he trails off, uncharacteristically hesitant, “if…if you would be amenable to it, perhaps we could do it properly—go for dinner, perhaps? As a date,” he clarifies, and Newt grins, practically leaping out of his chair and rushing to pull Hermann into a hug, relishing the startled squeak he makes.

“Yeah,” he says, face half-buried in Hermann’s neck, “yeah, that sounds great.”


End file.
